Tearing her eyes from the sight, she turned to Miss Gladstow. “Isn’t that fascinating, Miss Gladstow? You are a great lover of canines, are you not?”
Please, she silently begged as she watched the girl swallow hard,please respond to the man and relieve me from this hell. But Miss Gladstow darted one quick look up to Lord Jowls, blushed mightily, and dropped her eyes to the floor again, giving only a quick nod as she did so.
Rosalind just managed to fight back a groan. At this rate she would be out on her ear in a fortnight. Even worse, Lord Jowls was completely ignoring Miss Gladstow. Instead an interested gleam entered his eyes as he considered Rosalind. She had already learned in the five minutes they’d been in conversation that the man was widowed and without issue. No doubt he was on the lookout for a wife. He could not possibly be interested in her, a penniless companion. He would be wanting a wife of good standing, a wife with a dowry.
Yet Rosalind did not want to take any chances.
She looked to some spot behind him, widening her eyes in what she hoped was a believably surprised manner. “Oh! But Mrs. Gladstow requires her daughter. Do forgive us, my lord.”
Without waiting for the man’s response, Rosalind took hold of Miss Gladstow’s arm and hauled her away. The girl came without protest, years of being browbeaten by her mother making her docile to a fault. Surely Mrs. Gladstow would have another less jowly man for her daughter to “charm.”
Mrs. Gladstow, however, was not pleased with their return. “You have left Lord Ullerton already?” she hissed. “He is highly eligible, Sarah, and an earl. You could do worse.”
Not by much, Rosalind thought. By the look on Miss Gladstow’s face, she was of the same opinion. Besides, this was the girl’s first true foray into society. Would her mother have her land a husband already?
The older woman shook her head. “Never mind. For I’ve a family I want you to meet.” She leaned in closer to her daughter, her lips mere inches from the girl’s ear. Even so, Rosalind could hear the hiss of a whisper as she said, low and fierce, “Get in good with them, Sarah, and you are golden.”
Soon they were being propelled through the crowd—heading right for the blond Adonis. Rosalind stared in disbelief, praying Mrs. Gladstow would change course. She could not possibly mean to introduce her daughter to that man. But no, she headed right for him and his party, her steps determined, never faltering.
Mrs. Gladstow dropped into a deep curtsy when they reached them. “Pardon me for intruding once more,” she said, her voice sickeningly sweet, “but I did so want to introduce my daughter. This is Miss Sarah Gladstow, light of my life. Her father and I quite dote on her.” She smiled beatifically at the younger girl.
She then went into a rambling introduction of the other party. Rosalind’s mind spun as name after name was spoken. First Lord Willbridge, a handsome marquess with copper hair and twinkling gray eyes, followed by his pretty, bespectacled bride. Next was the dowager Lady Willbridge with her daughter Lady Daphne Masters, a ravishing beauty of a girl out for her first Season. Beside her was Miss Mariah Duncan, younger sister to the young Lady Willbridge and, with her flaxen hair and cornflower eyes, even more stunning than Lady Daphne.
And of course, last of the bunch was Sir Tristan Crosby, the blond Adonis. He grinned with a disgusting amount of confidence as his name was spoken.
The group smiled at them and murmured warm greetings. “Curtsy, dear,” Mrs. Gladstow hissed through her smile when her daughter continued to stand stupidly staring at her toes.
The young Lady Willbridge gave her a small, commiserating look and stepped forward, taking up her hands. Miss Gladstow jumped, looking up with wide eyes into the woman’s kind face.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lady Willbridge said, her voice melodic and sweet. She smiled in encouragement.
The effect on Miss Gladstow was instantaneous. A tentative answering smile spread over her face. “The pleasure is mine, my lady,” she whispered.
Lady Willbridge smiled in delight. Something in Rosalind’s chest loosened. She had come to care for Miss Gladstow in the past five months, despite the fact that she could hardly tease a word out of her. That this woman was being kind to her, as so few had been before, touched her deeply.
A deep voice interrupted. “But you have forgotten someone, Mrs. Gladstow.”
Rosalind sucked in her breath, her eyes flying to the blond Adonis, the one she now knew as Sir Tristan Crosby. He eyed her with interest, his blue eyes amazingly warm for all their icy color.
Her mind seemed to fly off for an instant. She forgot her position, her purpose in London, even her own name. For a single, frozen second she was merely a young woman staring back at the most devastatingly handsome man she had ever seen.
Which was as she feared would happen. Instant fury boiled through her veins. Granted, some of it was for him. He no doubt knew what he was doing with those intimate looks and melting smiles, the cur. But most of her anger was reserved for herself alone. She had known to be on her guard. And yet here she was, practically a drooling mess over one glance.
She would not—could not—be caught off guard again.
Mrs. Gladstow’s voice thankfully dragged her back from the island of self-reprimanding disgust where she had marooned herself.
“Her? Oh, she is my daughter’s companion, Miss Rosalind Merriweather.”
Sir Tristan grinned. “It is a pleasure, Miss Merriweather.”
She might have rolled her eyes. If she had not been too busy fighting the flock of butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach. Blessedly her mind was not so overtaken that she forgot to curtsy. The rest of the group greeted her before Mrs. Gladstow claimed their attention again. As Rosalind made to blend back in with the scenery, Sir Tristan stepped toward her. She looked at him in suspicion as he bent his head in an attempt at conversing privately with her.
“Are you new to town, Miss Merriweather?”
She briefly considered turning her back and ignoring the man entirely. But she had her position to think about. Mrs. Gladstow would surely not like her giving the cut direct. She said, in as clipped a manner as possible, “Yes.”
“And how do you like London?”
